A Stitch In Time? Fuck That!

I was reading a post over at Velociman's blog and it reminded me of an incident once when I was oh, 9 or 10 years of age:

Now, my parents, being Depression Era babies, thought stitches were for pussies. And only a total fucking mambypamby Little Lord Fauntleroy would assay to call them sutures! Oh, ain't he high and mighty, with his fancy fucking Sutures holding his face together after that mad plummet throught the windshield. I'da put a butterfly stitch, or 40, on that, I would have!
[...]

There were two of us, my next-door neighbor and I, out 'camping' in the woods behind our houses. Actually, he had gotten pissed at some unrealistic demand his parents had made of him, like cleaning his room or something equally as horrid, and he wanted to run away. Out of sympathy, I went along too. After all, he was my best friend. What could I do?

So we packed up our kit, which consisted of a couple cans of tuna, some packages of Jell-O for snacking, a quilt to rest our runaway heads on instead of the cold, damp ground, and of course - since we were cub scouts - pocketknives.

With our kit tied to a stick akin to a train-hopping hobo, we lit out for the world. Away from the overbearing parents. Away from the cops. Away from his babysitting sister and anyone who had done us wrong in our many youthful years.
As we left, my mother told me that if I was gonna run away to be sure and be home in time for supper.
"How could he say something so silly? Doesn't she know we're running away?"
"Yeah, my mom told me the same thing. I'll show 'er."

Off we went. Kit on our the shoulder, through the gate, over the fence, across the creek and into the woods. We traveled a good block from the house and found a nice clearing in the trees near the sheep pond and spread the blanket to prepare for our meal. The first course being a can of tuna. After all, we didn't want to spoil our appetite with the Jell-O, which was consumed by moistening a finger and dipping it into the box, then licking the wet powder off our finger. (We invented 'Lick-A-Stick', we just didn't know it at the time).

Halfway through our 'meal', we heard footsteps. "Must be my sister" he said. We, in a flash, discarded the remaining tuna, grabbed the quilt and took off running, glancing over our shoulders to make sure we weren't being followed.

That was not a good idea.

Someone had put up a barb-wire fence many years ago, then moved a portion of it. All but the top wire - which cought me neck high. Next thing I knew, I was laying on my back gasping for air, dark patches in the sky, blood running down my arm - which must have flung skyward as my ass was headed towards the devil himself.
Yes my friends, I had been clotheslined a'proper. And I had a deep gash on the inside of my elbow. Not all that long, but deep.

While my friend was imploring me to "Get up! Get up!", I calmly stated that I thought I needed to go to a doctor, whereupon he said "What if our parents find out?".
Well, that is exactly what I intended. I didn't plan on ending up bleeding to death running away for his sorry ass, so homeward bound I went.

Of course mother saw me holding my arm and had to see what was going on. Mentioned something about stitches, tetanus shots, splints, traction, ... well, at least stitches and tetanus. Of course, she was flatly refused. "No way. I ain't getting no stitches. And no shots. I'll wait and see if it gets infected before I go to the doctor. Just put a band-aid on it."
She poked the extruding meat back into the gash, dabbed a little mercurochrome or merthiolate - whichever the case may have been (remember that shit?) - and wrapped a pad under several layers of gauze. Good as new. No stitches.

As a kid I had some pretty good bumps, bruises and cuts. None of which ever required stitches. Some that should have, but none I would ever allow.

Hey, they give the complexion character!